Political Party
by Mikomi's Pen
Summary: [AU] It ain't easy being President - just ask Roy Mustang. Not only does he have to deal with PR flubs, reelection, and impending war, he's still trying to maintain a social life of sorts.
1. Part I, Chapter I

**Spoilers:** Identities of Sins. A bit of character backstory. Not much else.  
**Warnings:** Unsurprisingly, politics. There will be a bias. Hopefully, not much of one, but there will be one, because it deals with geopolitical events, many of which are actually relatively topical, and philosophies will inevitably shine through there; and because there is a very distinct narrator - Roy, most of the time - and the narrators will have opinions of their own. Mind, however, that this fanfic is not designed to preach. It's not designed to change your mind about anything. It's not a pulpit. It's designed to tell a story I thought was relatively interesting, and to allow me to mix my FMA obsession with my politics (i.e., _West Wing_) obsession. So if you come across something that irritates you, try to ignore it, and if you can't ignore it, stop reading. Oh, uh, also, mild violence, sexuality, and language. Heh. Yeah. Hee hee. I said sex.  
**Notes:** Damn you, Funimation, it's Riza, not Liza! My doodling of RxR will not have been for naught! Also, Hakuro, not Haruko! For names and the like, I'm sticking to the early romanizations.

* * *

**"Political Party"  
Part I, Chapter I**

The phone rang once, then twice, and the President managed to summon enough strength to knock it off the hangar toward himself.

"Good morning, sir," came a chirpy voice, not seeming to lose much in terms of volume for all its distance from his ear.

It took some will, but His Excellency managed a response: "Unnnnahhhghnnn." Ahh. Erudite and succinct. This was why the people had elected him by such an impressive margin.

"Mr. President, it's six o'clock in the morning – " Mr. Chirpy said, chirpily.

"I hate morning," the President said.

There was a bit of a pause. "Right. Well, it's six o'clock – "

"I hate six," the President said.

Another pause. "The number, or the time, sir?"

"Unnnnh."

"Well, I'll – ah – have it stricken from all, uh, proceedings, sir."

"I'll name you secretary," the President whispered. Somehow, Chirpy heard him, even though the receiver was still lying some distance away on the pillow. Square in a puddle of drool. Ha.

"Me, sir?" Chirpy was asking. "Of what, sir?"

"Coffee," the President said, irritated by his cheer and quite ready to end this line of questioning.

Chirpster, however, was less ready: "Secretary of coffee?"

_"Coffee," _the President growled. Chirpy laughed uncertainly.

"I'll have it sent in, sir."

"Unnnnnh." He swiped at the receiver of the phone, and enjoyed the beeping sounds it made for a disconcertingly long time, or at least until there was a knock on the door. He responded predictably:

"Unnnnnh."

His unflappable butler strode in, pushing before him a cart loaded with silver vessels. Without a word, the old man poured out a tall mug, adding just the right amount of sugar and cream – a _lot – _and placing it in the President's hands, then calmly replacing the phone on the hook.

After a few sips, His Excellency had remembered what it was like to be human enough to thank the man, and bade him leave but, for the love of God, _leave the coffee behind, _and then leaned against the headboard, letting the steaming mug warm his chilled hands, nursing the cooling drink and studying the painting of the founding of Amestris that hung on the wall. Perhaps he would have them nudge the temperature up a few degrees at night. It wasn't as though he were paying the heating bill, after all, ha ha ha. Kind of pleasant, though, having a warm bed and cold air. Perhaps he wouldn't.

He managed to compel himself to kick his covers aside for the sake of a second cup. He managed to catch a glimpse of his clock as he did so – six-thirty already? Enough time for a shower, but not a bath. Mmmyes. Hot water sounded nice. Right after coffee, which, not coincidentally, was also hot. Mm. Maybe he should go for a third cup? Couldn't hurt.

Of course, the third turned into a fourth, and after President Mustang lingered over his coffee he lingered in the shower, and, predictably, the nation of Amestris got off to a late start and had to rush breakfast once again.

* * *

"We've slipped a bit – " 

The President chose that very moment, at the announcement of the worst news, to come ambling in, mug clutched in his hand, and immediately his look of vague thoughtfulness turned into a frown. Such was his perpetual timing.

"That's a nice thing to wake up to," he said, and waved at them to keep their seats. He sat down at the head of the table.

"Nice to see you managed to make it, sir," Maes said, leaning over toward his friend and grinning.

"I didn't sleep well," the President responded. "Can we possibly – " He cut himself off with a growl as Maes reached toward his coffee cup. The growl faded as Maes pulled back, then redoubled as his friend reached forward once again.

"This is great," Maes enthused. "You guys should try this." He looked back at the assorted aides, none of whom would ever in their lives dare, and laughed, then leaned forward until his fingertip was a mere quivering centimeter from the mug's handle. The President slapped his hand.

"Don't we have _better _things to do?" asked Mustang, trying desperately to sound fierce and angry and businesslike.

"Latest polling numbers in, sir," Jan said, leaning back in his chair, a cigarette dangling from his fingers. He followed the President's gaze toward the noxious stick and made a token attempt at hiding it.

"Not so good?" Mustang asked.

"Not too bad. Just a slight slip," Maes said cheerily.

"They've, uh..." Heymans looked uncomfortably up towards the Chief of Staff. "They've decided that we don't have family values."

"So Maes," Jan said, staring at the ceiling languidly, no longer trying to conceal his cigarette, "has decided to go out and personally convince each and every voter how much of a misconception that is."

"Oh sweet Jesus Christ have mercy upon our souls," the President pronounced, deliberately avoiding Maes' gaze. "Anything we can do to change the perception?"

"You can get married and have five children within seven months," Vato suggested.

Mustang eyed the tall man, uncertain, as usual, whether or not he was joking. "Well. Seeing as that's rather impossible, I suppose we'll have to leave that up to the remarkable photo albums of one Maes Hughes, eh?"

Maes leaned over and murmured, "I have a new one, by the way, Roy old boy."

Roy leaned right back and replied, "I'm a very important man and my time is very valuable and I have aides to take care of that sort of thing. Delegating, you know."

"Ohh, no. I'm making time in your schedule so that you'll be able to look at my _brilliant _daughter."

"I'll have someone sit in on the meeting. I'll have them wear a mask so they look like me. They sell those commercially, now, you know."

"I'll get you one for Christmas."

"Perfect."

Heymans cleared his throat, and the two most powerful men in the nation snapped apart guiltily. Mustang coughed. "Right. Any good news?"

"Your support among single women is still quite strong," Jan drawled. "Woooonder why."

"Is that bitterness?" Mustang asked to no one in particular. "I think that might be bitterness."

"Also among gay men," Jan added.

"Did I make the cover of the Sexiest Geopolitical Players issue of _TeenBop _magazine this year, too?"

"That issue hasn't come out yet," Jan shot back.

"Is there one?"

"No."

"Damn! I'd be a shoo-in. My only competition would be, perhaps, Premier Bradley. Girls love a man in an eyepatch. I've been thinking of getting one, incidentally."

"An eyepatch?" Kain asked uncertainly.

"I think it would be dashing. Piratical, even."

"_Any_way," Maes interjected. "According to the poll, you're weak among married women and the military."

"Family values, yeah – I can understand the first one – but the _military? _If there were any group who should be stronger among the military..."

"They think you're weak."

"They think I'm weak."

"On Drachma."

"Of course. Completely disregarding that relations with our proverbial gorilla are as normal as they've ever been...We're _allies _now, you know We've committed _troops."_

"Maybe that's the problem, sir," Maes said, shrugging. "Nothing can get the old boys happy like a bit of cold-war tension. Maybe they miss it."

"They _have _a war, such as it is. Can't they use that to distract them?"

"It's not a real war. We don't look macho fighting it," Jan snorted. "That's what they want. They want to be the nation of awesome, or something."

"Ahh. Well, okay, then. Someone draft a press release right now: 'In order to appease our military and to intimidate our potential enemies, among whom, evidently, are our allies, the Democratic Republic of Amestris is now officially the Democratic Republic of Kickass.'"

"Wait, wait – we should do..." Kain counted off on his fingers. "The People's Republic of Awesomeness and, uh, Democratic Ambition. Then we can mass-produce cheap bags and sell them at grossly inflated prices."

"Uh?" grunted Heymans.

"PRADA. People will never know the difference."

"And a hand to Kain, for solving our economic problems," laughed Mustang. "Anything else?"

"They don't like you in the southern provinces," Vato said calmly.

"I've never understood that one, really," the President said. "I mean, I sound like I should be from there. Not the accent. The name. _Roy Mustang. _Really."

"Oh, no. We know," Heymans snickered. "You sound like you're a..." Vato coughed, and Heymans looked over. "A never mind."

"Were you about to make the stripper joke again?" Mustang asked.

"No," Heymans lied.

"I take great offense to that joke," Mustang said. "I'm the leader of Amestris, the most enlightened nation in the entirety of the world, and as such am possessed of an inalienable dignity – " He cut himself off with another growl as Maes reached for his cup once again. His friend, predictably, took advantage of his silence to speak.

"I think we're done here. Anybody have anything else? Anybody? Issues? Congratulations on it being my _darling _Elysia's quarter-birthday?"

"Congratulations," most of the room chorused dully.

Mustang, however, looked sideways at his friend. "Maes, I don't even know what a quarter-birthday _is."_

"You're a smart man. Highly educated. You can figure it out."

"Can we maybe..._theoretically..._just kind of put most days under the blanket of 'Elysia's unbirthday'? It would save time."

"No."

"Maes..."

"You wouldn't grasp the significance of the day if that were the case."

"I have a country to run, _Hughes_."

"Then run it, _Mr. President," _Maes responded.

"Thank you, everyone," the President said, rolling his eyes. His staff muttered thanks and filed out of his office. His chief of staff, last of all, hesitated a moment.

"There was nothing else, Maes?" Mustang asked him quietly. Maes turned back and closed the door to the office behind him.

"There was..." Maes hesitated. Roy watched him as he adjusted his glasses and shrugged. "A bit of an incident."

"Oh?"

"In Creta."

"In Creta," Roy repeated. "Two words I don't like."

"It shouldn't be anything, unless Bradley is in a bad mood. One of ours killed one of theirs."

"Not a friendly fire incident?"

"Don't know. It could be, and wouldn't _that _be nice. Doesn't look like it, though. It was an officer of ours, Major Edward Elric, and their General Gran."

The President couldn't suppress a half-gasp. "General Gran? Can we give our man a medal?"

"Roy – " Maes said warningly.

"...Well." Mustang frowned. "This certainly has the potential to turn into something significant. Whose custody is the offender in?"

"Ours. He's being extradited even as we speak."

"How's the Premier feel about that?"

"He hasn't been in contact. The whole thing only happened this morning. Want me to set up a call?"

"Yes. No. No. Wait until he's inside our borders, then set up the call. Have the Secretary of State on standby. Hakuro, too. God only knows what this might turn into."

"I'm sure it'll be fine," Maes said. "You have the state dinner tonight – a reception for delegates from Xing."

"Yeah?"

"There will be a few people from Drachma there."

"Who?"

"Only significant one is the Secretary of War. I'll have Sheska get you their files."

"Fine. Thank you, Maes," Roy said, pulling a stack of paperwork towards himself and smiling ruefully.

"Thank you, sir," Maes said, and shut the door as he left.


	2. Part I, Chapter II

**"Political Party"  
Part I, Chapter II**

State dinners were not, perhaps, the most interesting of all events, but at least they were _pretty. _Some people out there, Mustang had decided, were simply geniuses, and many of them seemed to work for him: somehow, even with the riotous mix of flowers exotic and mundane sweeping across each table, even with each place set with gleaming silver and crystal rimmed with gold, somehow the entire room sparkled, almost harmonious in its beauty.

He couldn't even begin to conceive how they made it so that it didn't give him a headache. Really, he couldn't. They were just geniuses, was all.

So? Everyone else was made up to the beauty of the occasion. He, naturally, was brimming with his bachelor's charm, as usual, but honestly, he was one of the less attractive in the room. Some of the women from Xing, for example, in all their taut spare beauty, and even several of his more ornate home-grown types, absolutely stole his breath. Thank God he wasn't married.

Not, of course, that he could take advantage of the fact: he was sadly trapped talking to one of the delegates – a man who seemed far too young for the honor, and who wasn't able to speak the language very well. Every time the President asked a question (generally about Xing's economy, the answer to which would actually be useful to him, if only because this young man would probably give away information he shouldn't) the delegate's accent actually seemed to get worse. A sample exchange:

"Do you have any plans to expand into manufacturing in the near future?"

"Could you repeat the question?"

"Manufacturing. Obviously, several corporations in your country have expressed a desire..."

"I'm sorry. Manufacturing?"

"You don't really understand, do you? Never mind," Mustang said, and glanced around, desperate for someone, _anyone _to come and rescue him from this most awkward of conversations. Of course, while he was looking the wrong way, someone did come up – incidentally, the single person who he wanted to talk to less than this young delegate. Her version of a greeting was to brush her hand along the back side of his neck and laugh low and quiet when he jumped.

"Mr. President," Drachma's Secretary of War greeted breathily.

He caught her hand and pressed it between his, an action which had the pleasing side effect of removing her from any of his vulnerable areas. "Madam Secretary!" he greeted. "I keep forgetting how beautiful you are."

"And you're getting more handsome each day, Mr. President," she said mockingly. Mm. He hated that habit of hers. Dammit, he _was _getting more handsome, and that was hardly something to scoff at.

"Please. I'm hardly managing to get my beauty sleep at this point."

"You really can't tell," she said. It would have been coquettish if it weren't so overwhelmingly laden with sex. "I, on the other hand, am turning into an old woman."

"I'd never realized that age so improved things, madam," he replied. "That we all could be aged so."

She chuckled and leaned against the wall, swirling her champagne flute in one hand. "You must understand, Your Excellency, that there are things that turn my hair gray."

"Oh?" Mustang asked. Well, now he could _really _do with a rescue.

"Mmm."

"If it's the lack of a good man, madam, you know where to turn..." he flirted desperately.

"I'm sure," she breathed, running her free hand up his thigh. Awkward. Especially – well, maybe he'd let her molest him at a reception in which Drachma was the featured guest, but certainly not at one for Xing. He pulled away.

"Well," he said, coughing. She seemed amused for having won their little game of chicken.

"You see, Mr. President," she said, "I've heard of assaults upon our soldiery..."

"Unsurprising," he said, unable to suppress that _liiittle_ bit of hostility.

"Oh, certainly – " the Secretary said with a shrug. "Of course there will be attacks. What was surprising to me, though, was how the attacks were made by our allies."

Damn. Perhaps he could plead that it was hardly fitting to discuss issues of national security where they could be overheard? Or maybe he could head her off at the pass, as it were. "Madam," he responded, "you must understand two things: one, that this was an isolated incident; and two, that we cannot account for the actions of individuals."

"Of course I know that, sir; _I'm_ not an idiot." Thanks. "The real issue, though, is that you're extraditing the criminal. He attacked our citizens, sir. We should deal with him."

Maes – for the love of God! Get her away. "We'll deal with him. His punishment will be no less just for being tried in his home country."

"I'm sure, Mr. President, but it's the symbolism of the thing that matters."

"It's the symbolism that matters to us, too," the President replied. And, thank God – just as she was about to make some reply, Maes was there, his hand on her arm, muttering something in her ear. For a moment, Mustang would have sworn that his friend was about to pull out a few photos to distract her. But merely words worked: somehow, she nodded, and turned back to Mustang.

"Mr. President. It has – as always...been a pleasure," she pronounced, and licked her lips, and walked off. Maes, in turn, shot him almost a chiding glance, as though it were his fault that he'd been assailed, and followed her. Still, Roy couldn't get too irritated with his savior.

"She strikes me as dangerous," the young delegate said clearly.

For a moment it didn't register. Then Mustang turned to him and stared. "Please," he said, "tell me that that's just a phrase that you've memorized, and not that you've actually been screwing with me for the past five minutes."

"Not for the past five minutes, no. There was a gap there in which a completely different person was screwing you," the delegate said with light accent. It was clear that he was completely fluent, and that the omission of the preposition in that last phrase was no accident of language. Ha, ha. Thank you, Mr. Punny.

"You know what?" the President said. "That does it. I'm cutting off all trade with your country."

"I never much approved of your system, anyway," the young man said. "Too busy. Too self-important. I do hope you will forgive me, Mr. President. My father sent me to observe, and there's no better way to take the measure of a man than to see how he talks to a man he doesn't think can understand."

"And did I pass your father's test?" Mustang asked, feigning irritability.

"Oh, I'd say so. The bit where you tried to take advantage of me was a bit off-putting, but overall, you were quite decent. And amusing."

"You're a terribly arrogant young man, aren't you? Who's your father?"

"The Emperor."

"Of Xing?"

"Yes."

"Oh." Despite realizing that he'd been taunting royalty, Mustang rallied: "I would think he'd be able to raise a boy better."

"You would think so, wouldn't you?" the delegate-slash-prince asked, grinning. "Because you've demonstrated how ability to govern is indicative of domestic capabilities."

"I could be a good dad. I choose not to be."

"Although with the rumors I hear, I'd be startled if you weren't a father at this point." Then a bit of the grin melted off the young man's face, and he hastily added, "Mr. President."

"Yeah; nice job, wrecking your father's vital diplomatic mission. I'm horribly offended and will promptly declare war."

The prince relaxed at his irony. "Given how the Secretary was looking at you, I'd try to keep my forces in reserve."

Mustang leaned back and twisted around to look at the official in question, talking to one of the delegates, one hand trailing down her own chest coquettishly. "Really? She looked like she was about to eat me."

"Exactly."

"Oh, not in the bad sense," Mustang replied absently.

"Mr. President," the prince said, eyebrows raised, "I may seem mature, but I'm still relatively young. Do you honestly want to be discussing that sort of thing with me?"

The President whipped back around to stare at him. "God! – No! No, I didn't mean it like...Good Lord. It was more in the 'cute enough to eat' sense of the word...How did you even _know_ what I was talking about?"

"I'm not _actually _all that naïve, sir."

"You don't really think she would declare war, do you?"

"I think she would if she had the chance. I mean, Drachma never attacks without a pretense – do they?" The delegate smiled. "Keep from giving them an excuse, and you'll be fine."

"Hmm. Premier Bradley seems to be getting more temperamental recently, though, don't you think? Hard to keep from pissing him off."

"Definitely," the prince agreed. "You know what, though? I think that if you somehow manage to cross Bradley, I could convince my father to offer...ahh, dammit!" he thumped the side of his fist into his forehead repeatedly. "What's the word!"

"Which?"

"Safety – you know – "

"Asylum?"

"Thank you!" the young man heaved a quick sigh. "I mean, our army's not very impressive, so we can hardly offer military aid, but you can't really invade us."

"We can't?"

"Or anybody else," the delegate said with a shrug. Strange, too – he seemed quite serious. And this was an independent gesture? Very strange.

"Well, we're quite eminently invadeable," Mustang responded slowly, "but we have quite the army, so if your country ever needs military aid – "

The prince beamed. "Good!" he grinned, and it hit the President that he'd somehow just secured an alliance, in spite of the fact that none of his predecessors had managed it. At least, he thought so; this all seemed terribly haphazard. So he just sort of shrugged, and stuck out his hand. The prince grasped it.

Then someone behind Mustang cleared his throat. "Mr. President – " Maes said. Mustang gave the young man one last smile before turning to his chief of staff. Upon seeing his face, Maes cocked his head slightly to the side; Mustang waved his hand a bit, an _I'll tell you later._

"Maes!" Mustang greeted. "Do you know, ahh..." The he realized his mistake; he hadn't the foggiest what the young man's name was.

Fortunately, Maes was, as usual, brilliant. "Ling Yao," he said. "Twelfth Prince of Xing. I've heard that you're quite brilliant in the political arena."

"Whoever says that is far too kind," Ling said. His accent had managed to thicken. Remarkable lad, this one.

"Mr. President, the General just arrived," Maes said, raising his eyebrow significantly.

"Thank you, Maes." Mustang turned to Ling once again. "A pleasure talking to you, Your Excellency."

"And you, Mr. President," Ling replied, his jaunty wave contrasting oddly with his polite farewell.

"What was that all about, anyway?" Maes murmured as they walked away.

"I think that Xing just pledged to help us."

"Huh."

Mustang waited until they'd stepped into his office and there were consequently several solid walls between him and the Secretary of War before he started to grill Maes. "Were there any problems?"

"Nope. I mean, we kept it pretty well secret. I know – normally we're pretty incompetent when it comes to that, but we managed, this time around. Not even a whisper from Drachma – "

"Aside from what we just heard, which was a bit louder than a whisper."

"You know what I mean. In terms of – military intervention, strike teams, whatever."

"'Strike teams,' Maes?"

"What?"

"You've been watching too many movies."

"Wha – that's what they're _called, _Roy. Were you not there during the war? Were you asleep?"

"Ever so often. He's in good shape?"

"I didn't ask. I didn't think it would be very good form to ask."

"Mm. 'We don't care about this criminal – '"

"Exactly. 'No, seriously, Drachma, swear to God we'll make him pay – '"

"I'm surprised, by the way," Roy said, "that you didn't advise me to turn him over."

"Hmm," Maes replied.

"Hmm? Hmm, what?"

"Hmm, was there a demand in there."

"No need to get irritable."

"Swear to God, Roy. One of these days, coup d'etat. Did you _want_ me to tell you to hand the poor bastard over?"

"Hmm." Mustang honestly had to think about it for a moment. "Well, it'd be nice if we had _a _voice of diplomacy on the team. Just to raise the specter of appeasement, at least."

"Will do, Mr. President," Maes said, then cleared his throat and adopted a deliberately concerned expression. "It's not too late to give Major Elric to Drachma."

"No, Maes," Mustang said. "I don't think that it is a good idea, because it would set a pattern of kowtowing and encourage Drachma to regularly ignore our sovereignty. See that? That's how I want it to go."

"Cool," Maes said. "I'll set up a call for you with Bradley – what – tomorrow morning?"

"Mm." Mustang thought a moment. "Muscovy is two hours ahead, right? Set it up for ten-thirty."

"Our time or their time?"

"Our time. Bradley tends to be milder after he's eaten." He felt lamentably compelled to add, "Politicians like me for breakfast. Or lunch."

"How noble, Roy. Offering yourself up?"

"Never! Fight to the death, or at least the illness." Roy clapped Maes on the shoulder as he walked by. "Thanks for telling me, old man."

"Oh – one last thing," Maes said. Roy turned, his hand on the doorknob. "Williams is retiring."

"No!" Roy blinked. "How old was he?"

"Thirty-three."

"Isn't that horribly young?"

"Pretty much. He never really recovered from that bullet wound, though, so...We're interviewing candidates now."

"I liked Williams."

"If someone decided to take a shot at you, he wouldn't have been able to defend you, Roy. It's just as well. We have a few candidates who seem extremely competent." Maes made a shooing motion as Roy opened his mouth to respond. "Go back to your _party, _Roy. Avoid the Secretary."

"'Cause that's easy to do, given her propensity to _raping _me."

"That was vile and vulgar," Maes said. Roy shrugged, only half in apology, and left.

* * *

(A/N: Dear neverending exposition and weak character development: I hate you, you're foul, go away, stop ruining my chapter. To Artemis' inquiry: Don't you worry; Riza shall be coming along shortly, and how.) 


	3. Part I, Chapter III

**"Political Party"  
Part I, Chapter III**

Just before Jan stepped into the press room, his overbearing assistant tapped him on the shoulder. He steeled himself and turned back to her.

"Look, Lils," he said, "if it's a date you're looking for, I'd be more than happy – "

She didn't squeak and jump back, as he had hoped (though, really, it was just as well, since it was always a bit of a blow to his self-esteem whenever anybody did that). Instead, she reached for his pants. He raised his eyebrows but managed to take it mostly in stride.

"Uh...Lily, dear, I don't really have time for – "

"Asshole," she pronounced, fishing his cigarettes from his pants pocket. "We can't have you lighting up at the podium any more. You look sloppy, and it makes the President look soft on tobacco." When Jan looked as though he would protest, she added, "Mr. Hughes told me to tell you that."

"Oh," he replied. "Well. If Hughes said so. But any time you'd like to..."

"Let's keep this professional, Mr. Havoc," she said, walking into her customary place.

"Worst part is," Jan lamented to no one in particular, "after Mustang's run-in with the Secretary of War yesterday, I can't even say that he's getting less than me. Life sucks."

"And then you die," Lily called out, "probably of cancer."

"Thanks _so _much," he sniffed, then plastered a smirk on his face and walked out to the podium. "Good morning, everyone," he said. They slurred something that didn't even vaguely resemble anything recognizable as it registered how many of them there were. They seemed tense, too – eager, like bloodhounds. Evil and flesh-eating, of course; they were ever nothing if not evil and flesh-eating.

"The state dinner went well yesterday, for those of you who were either spending the night at home or fell asleep. The President and the new ambassador met, and they got along absolutely swimmingly, and the entire delegation has given their thanks for the gracious reception. We anticipate and hope that this will be a forerunner to smooth relations to come." He looked around at the press, straining at their metaphorical leash. Slowly, experimentally, he said, "Are there any qu-"

And there went the metaphorical flesh. Half the press corps leapt to their feet, shouting for his attention; the other half joined the first half in standing within a few moments, realizing that they would never be seen. It was but another moment before they were giving up on being called on and just shouting out their questions.

"Jan – "

"Jan – "

"Jan, does the President honestly intend to change – "

"Isn't the President ashamed at – "

"...the 'Democratic Republic of _Kickass'?"_

It took a moment for that last one to register. When it did, he signaled Lily over. She blinked at him a moment, then walked over and opened her mouth to ask him what he needed. He stole the cigarettes from her hand, pulled one out, and lit up. She didn't protest.

* * *

Mustang exploded out of his office, aides trailing behind him, unsure what to do to placate him. He knew how much he was upsetting them, and that gave him a bit of satisfaction. Just enough to add a mean edge onto his anger. 

"Where's Hughes?" he demanded.

"Roy – " Hughes said from behind him. He stopped, and the aides practically tripped over each other in stopping too.

"Hughes, did you see that?"

"You know, Mr. President, I really think we know each other well enough that you can call me Maes," he said, cheerily enough.

Mustang was too irritated to bother to keep himself from speaking to Hughes with more accustomed formality. "Did you _see _that?"

"Why, yes, actually. I do have a TV in my office. Crappy one, though. I almost didn't see it through the static. Maybe you'll want to replace it for me?"

"You're _laughing."_

"Yep. It's pretty funny."

"It's not funny. It's _not funny. _At any other time, maybe – but today – I'm about to go try to intimidate Premier Bradley into leaving us alone. I _cannot deal_ with this."

"Laugh it off, Roy. I've already told Havoc to treat it as a joke. 'Oh my God, I can't believe someone in the room was so stupid they didn't realize it was a joke.' That sort of thing. That's what it was. It's not gonna be a thing, Roy."

"Drachma already sees us as a joke, Hughes. This isn't going to help."

"Nope. It's not." Hughes shrugged broadly. "It's happened, though, and ain't nothin' we can do about it."

Mustang stirred at his anger once again. "I want to see someone _fired, _Hughes."

"Will booting them out the door be enough, or is execution...?" he asked, grinning.

"I'm not joking."

"You want to see someone fired," Hughes repeated, the smile falling from his face. "And what if I can't find whoever actually fucked up? Shall I fire Jan, then?"

Mustang paused a moment, then gritted out, "If that will solve the problem." He looked as though he desperately wanted to hit something.

"Hmm," Maes said. "Don't you have the call with Bradley?"

"Yes," Roy growled.

"Isn't it in your office?"

Roy grunted, wheeled around, and returned the way he came.

"He's not actually mad," Maes said to whoever it was at his right – Sheska, he saw once he actually looked at her. "He doesn't actually want me to fire anyone. You can see it in his eyes."

"I see," she said uncertainly.

He smiled at her, and she relaxed slightly. "Look, I'm gonna want to be in there while Roy's on the phone, to make sure he doesn't cause a diplomatic incident. He's a moron when he's mad. Could you find Jan and tell him something for me? Tell him not to bother looking for who actually wrote the press release. Tell him to look for who was supposed to be screening them yesterday. Okay?"

She nodded. "I got it."

"Thanks." He grinned at her. She was a good kid. "Well, wish me luck in placating the angry beast that is our President."

"Good luck," she said. Maes mock-saluted her and went to join Roy.

* * *

"Good afternoon, Premier Bradley," Roy was saying as Maes walked in. 

"Mr. President," the Premier responded. He sounded...like he always did. Guy had a fantastic poker voice.

"How's your son, Premier?" he asked quickly.

"He looks more and more like you every day." The Premier and Roy both laughed; it was a joke the two had running that each pretended was funnier than it was.

"Congratulations on your latest unemployment numbers, by the way," Roy said.

"Oh, thank you. They're not good..."

"Improving, though."

"For the first time since I took office, I lament."

"Well. The entire world suffered a bit of a downturn around then." Maes added in his head, as Roy doubtless added in his head, that Bradley was in no small part responsible for said downturn. Bad form to say that, though.

"Yes, I suppose. Yes! Definitely! My, if there's anything that's better than blaming your personal failures on something else..." Bradley again broke into a guffaw. Roy's more reserved laughter joined in a moment later.

"God knows I've been doing nothing but since I took office," Roy said. "Parliament, other countries, my wife..."

"Have you gotten married yet, then?"

"No; I'm just shoring up all possibilities, here," Roy said. Remarkable that, angry as he had been – angry as he was – he was positively chatty.

"Well. I'm sure that my wife would be more than willing to leave me for you," Bradley laughed. "Not, of course, that you would take her. Much more beautiful women out there falling all over you."

"Oh, I rather doubt that there's any one more beautiful than your wife, Premier. You must be quite the lady-killer."

"I had my day, I suppose," Bradley replied. "All you have to do, really, is take 'em out for a couple of boat rides, swear a few promises, and buy them flowers. Consider that advice from me to you."

"Thank you, Premier. I'll definitely take that advice when I have the time for a few boat rides. That'll be – what – six months from now?"

"Oh, yes. How are your poll numbers?"

"Good enough. Apparently, I'm out-of-step with the rest of the country...You know how it goes."

"You should declare a dictatorship," Bradley said. "It worked for me." There was a pause before he exploded in laughter again. Roy, once again, laughed as well.

"And you're doing an admirable job at dictating. Just ask your secretaries," Roy joked. Bradley laughed again.

"Oh, you're a good old boy," Bradley chuckled. "I had my doubts when you first took office. You were terribly young. And General Gran, God rest his soul, had said that you were borderline insubordinate. But Amestris has truly become a great nation under your care." There was a moment of pensive silence that Roy, wisely, didn't break. "I expect, Mr. President, that you will help me avenge the General's murder."

"I will, Premier," Roy said solemnly. "Basque Gran was a great man." The President fortunately didn't trip over his tongue with that lie, but he did grimace at Maes once it was out of his mouth. "You're most likely aware that we have the suspect in our custody."

"Yes."

"Even as we speak, a military tribunal is being set up – "

"President Mustang," Bradley interrupted, "give him to us."

Again, Roy pulled a face that didn't manifest itself in his speech. "Premier, I can assure you that justice will be done."

"Justice cannot be done in a country without the death penalty. We want to see Elric pay." There was something in the way that the Premier said that that rang discordant in Maes' ear; he filed his unease away. "You know what it says in the Bible."

Roy, stupidly, offered, "Turn the other cheek?"

For once, Bradley did not laugh. "It's simple enough, Mustang. We want him. Give him to us."

"Premier, Amestris is a sovereign nation. We will not allow – "

"Sovereignty be damned," Bradley said calmly. "We will see him pay."

"He's a citizen of Amestris!"

"Who committed a crime against Drachma," Bradley snapped back. "Your country, Mr. President, is an international joke. You truly expect me to take seriously a nation that does not take itself seriously?"

Shit. Roy winced visibly. "Premier, I resent your insinuation."

"I insinuate nothing. I'm merely responding to what I've seen on the news this very morning. I laughed."

"I have little doubt of that," Roy muttered. Shit. No, Roy. Even when you're not muttering something offensive, don't mutter in front of Bradley. It enrages him.

And when the Premier next spoke, it was indeed with anger manifest in his voice: "If you don't hand him over, we'll consider your government as harboring a criminal."

"Then so be it. We will not hand one of our citizens to be tried in a foreign court."

"So be it," Bradley spat back; "and we consider this an act of aggression." He let that sink in. "Best of luck in the coming election."

"Best of luck – " Roy hissed back at the phone, before Maes' frantic signaling to keep himself in hand registered. So he took a deep breath and finished, "In your economic recovery, Premier."

And then there was a hum as the Premier hung up. Roy carefully pushed the button that turned off the speakerphone, then with a soft cry swept the phone off the edge of the desk and kicked it, then collapsed into his chair and pressed his face into his hands.

"Well," Maes said, after Roy had spent about a minute in that pose.

"That went well," Roy said. He lowered his hands. He looked haggard. "This will be the end of us all. I can see it now."

"Ahh, you said the same thing when Creta and Aerugo got into that feud. We got through that all right, didn't we?" Maes leaned over the desk to muss his friend's hair. "It'll be fine."

Roy swatted his hand away. "Get together with Armstrong and Marco. We need to come up with a plan to hand Elric over as gracefully as possible if Bradley goes through with his threat."

"Sure. It's just a symbolic thing, after all," Maes said.

"Yeah." Roy sighed and collapsed facedown on the desk again. "I'm just tired of being Bradley's bitch."

"Yeah," Maes agreed. Then he paused, eyeing the back of the President's head. "Do you...want me to set up a meeting with Elric?"

Roy looked up. "Why?"

"I dunno. I just got kind of a weird vibe from Bradley. I can meet with him, if you'd like."

The President resettled his chin and tried to shake his head. It ended up being sort of a side-to-side wagging. "No. If you think I should, I'll meet with him."

"Later today, I think," Maes speculated out loud. "You and Hawkeye should meet, and then the two of you will go over together. Her first test will be defending you from a hardened criminal chained to the wall."

Roy blinked. "Hawkeye?"

"Williams' replacement."

"Ah. 'Her'?"

"Yep. Any objections?"

"Is she pretty?"

"I haven't met her. She, uh...used to be in the army, too. She was stationed in Ishvar, a while after we were." Maes watched; Roy closed his eyes and sighed through his nose.

"Good," Roy murmured after a moment. "That's going to be it, I think, for now. I'm going to take an early lunch."

"Chicken soup?" Maes asked. Roy sort-of nodded, a bit of a rueful smile making its way onto his face, and Maes went to go tell the chef. He might have delegated, normally – not today, though; he'd carry the food into his friend himself.

* * *

(A/N: Points to tigerofthewind.) 


	4. Part I, Chapter IV

**"Political Party"  
Part I, Chapter IV**

There were, however, benefits to being in charge. The ceremony of it, for example. There were many, many who spoke of how disgusted they got as everyone bowed and scraped, but the President enjoyed it quite a bit. The way they all had to stand when he came into a room, for example. That was eminently satisfying, particularly if they'd been in this particular meeting quite a while and were tired. Perhaps it was perversity, perhaps a bit of _schadenfreude_, but he enjoyed seeing the look on their faces when they had to drain even that tiny little bit of energy.

Or here, where he didn't have to open his own door. That was the nicest feeling in the world, particularly since it was about _no _degrees outside and the car had been sitting outside for some time and the metal handle would be absolutely frigid. Besides – these were valuable hands, baby. How could they sign documents with frostbite?

But honestly, it seemed like they were quite well-bitten, for all that he'd only to walk out to the car. He couldn't even imagine what it was like to have to stand out there for hours in dress uniform, just guarding the motorcade. Lordy. That poor kid, standing there – he must have been absolutely freezing. So Mustang couldn't find it within himself to enjoy it as the door was opened for him, even as he told himself how damn valuable his hands were.

There was a girl inside the car, sitting in the rear-facing seat. Pretty enough sort, really, if a bit severe, dressed in the long slacks and jacket of his guard service, with hair pulled sharply back. But she had lovely eyes, and very nice – But she was his personal _guard_, dammit. Not someone to get distracted over.

"Brisk out there, isn't it?" he said as he clambered in. The look she shot him was distressingly neutral. Well, at least she didn't notice his distraction. Maybe.

"Terribly, sir," she agreed.

"You must be Hawkeye." He stuck out his hand, and she took it. He'd expected her hands to be soft, just from the way they looked at a distance, but there were heavy calluses along her fingers. He pulled back from the handshake with a touch of – surprise, really, at this evidence of her professionalism.

"Are you settled in, sir?" the driver called from the front.

"Yeah. Thanks," Mustang said back.

As the car pulled off, the President turned back to Hawkeye. "So, Hawkeye. – I'm really bad with names, first off. Don't be offended if I forget yours. It's not like you're not outstanding, I just forget names."

"You've been doing well so far, sir."

"Oh...Thank you, I try. Every once in a while, though – I may just sort of, you know, snap, and call you 'You' – I don't mean to disrespect, really I don't, and don't let it get in the way of you, you know, picking off snipers – don't take offense. It's just the onset of my senility."

She looked at him calmly – not, of course, that she seemed to be able to do anything but calmly. "I see." Then – unnervingly – she took her gun from her holster. She lay it on her lap, though, and took out a rag and began to polish. A tic, perhaps? "And how old are you, sir?"

Mustang nodded thoughtfully. "Late twenties," he said, still nodding. Then he realized what he had said. He quickly corrected himself: "Uh, ear – mid-thirties, ish. You know. Prime of my – career...Yourself?" Dumb question, dumbass.

She seemed unfazed, unoffended: "Prime of my career," she echoed, lifting her gun so it would catch the light. "And no need to worry about angering me, sir. I'd take a bullet even if I loathed you. They brainwash us in basic training. "

Mustang had to take a moment before he realized that she was joking. Then he brayed a loud laugh, which was appropriate, considering the level of jackass he was. Christ. "Oh, yeah. Okay. So, uh – " Okay. Take a moment. He'd charmed heads of state; he could certainly impress an _employee. _"So you guys do take bullets, huh? That's a bit of a relief. Last guy said it wasn't in the job description."

She smiled – thank God. "I believe, sir, he may have been lying."

"Shit," he pronounced deliberately. "I should've known it. I should've known it by the glint in his eye. Who wouldn't want to take a bullet for me?"

She raised an eyebrow at her gun. "More than half the country?"

"Oh, those are _fighting _words. Considerably _less_ than half, _thank you, _we won by a healthy margin."

"The margin had _cholera, _it was so unhealthy, sir, and I'm referring to your current failures, not your past triumphs."

Roy pulled a face at her. Unfortunately, absorbed as she was in her gun, his expression was lost. "Shouldn't you be – I don't know – polite, or something? Can't I fire you?"

"Yes," she said calmly. "But we've been over this. As someone who would take a bullet, I'm a precious commodity."

"You said half the country!"

"I said less than half."

"That's a hell of a less than half."

"Besides, you don't want to fire me. I'm charming. And I have yet to make fun of you for – "

"Oh, shut up. And now you've brought it up, so I need feel no compunctions when canning you."

"Honestly, sir, what were you _thinking?"_

"It was sabotage, Hawkeye."

"Oh? You didn't actually say it, then?"

"No, uh...I did say it, but – it was a private, jokey sort of thing. You know. 'Ha, ha, ha, Kickass!' That sort of thing."

"Even so, sir," she said calmly, continuing not to look up, "it was extremely inappropriate. I, for one, was terribly offended."

He watched her for a moment, then waved his hand in dismissal. "No you weren't."

"Yes, I was," she replied.

"No you weren't. You didn't even flinch when I said..." He trailed off as something outside the car caught his attention – some flash of yellow. And, among the crowds of people on the sidewalk, there was a boy – young, really, with brownish hair, glaring furiously as the car went by, and there was something strange about him...

"Sir?" Hawkeye asked. She wasn't relaxed, casual as she had been before – now she seemed keen, alert, her gun in her hand. "Did you see something?"

He shook his head. "I, uh...Sorry. I just tend to be easily distracted, and there must have been a – shiny object out there, or something." He smiled at her, and she scanned along the sidewalk, then nodded, sat back, and put her gun away. Still, she gave him a chiding look.

"Don't be afraid to tell me anything – _anything _you see, sir," she said. "Your safety is of the utmost importance."

"That and not looking like an idiot, yeah, they're pretty..." But Hawkeye was shaking her head emphatically.

"I'm not here to be impressed by you, sir," she said. "You tell me anything you're afraid of, if it's a guy you saw you think might have a gun or – I don't know, rabid eagles flying down from the sky to attack you. I won't think any bit less of you for it."

"Hmm," he muttered. It was a relief to hear, and it was a nice sentiment. He couldn't really restrain himself, though: "Eagles don't get rabid, though. It's a mammalian disease."

"Honestly, sir, I don't care if they do cut back on my benefits, but I will shoot you if you become to annoying."

"Oh," he said, then cleared his throat. "Okay. That's cool, I guess."

* * *

He'd expected...something different. He'd expected, from seeing the pictures, someone lanky, and lean, with a long-muscled sort of strength – and someone cold. He'd expected someone unfeeling, really – an icy expression, eyes dead. He'd expected a _killer, _the sort he'd been surrounded with when he did his stint. Not quite so cruel as some he'd served with, but just as chilly, and just as languid, perhaps with that same wolfish, callous smile playing about the lips.

What he hadn't expected was to feel pity. He hadn't thought that he'd look at the Major and feel sorry for him. He'd expected a soldier, not this – tiny boy, strong, yes, wiry, yes, but with a face frozen with a cold sort of grief, so pitiful, bound as he was. The fact that he grieved for his fate, for his imminent punishment, should have made Mustang hate him, for the fact that he was sad not for his crime but what resulted from it, but no – it stirred up a sort of sympathy – a pathetic fallacy, really, if one would excuse the pun.

But the Major looked up when he walked in, for a brief moment, and met Mustang's gaze – and lord, it was all the President could do not to falter in his step. The sheer fury of that glare, the sullen, smoldering _rage – _he amended his decision to call the Major a boy; no child could exhibit such anger.

But he looked down again, staring at the table as though he could divine and answer to something from its black slate depths, and Mustang sat opposite him, quite glad of Hawkeye's presence. He didn't speak, and neither did the Major. They just sat in mutual silence as Mustang pondered the fact that he had too little time for this.

Finally, the Major's eyes flickered, and he spoke, still without looking up. "Colonel," he greeted.

Mustang gave a small smile. "Didn't you hear, Major? I've received a bit of a promotion since then."

Still in a monotone: "Pardon me. Brigadier General?"

The forced smile turned into a real one – rueful, yes, but genuine. "I rather fancy that I've left behind my military roots."

"Funny thing about roots," Elric said. "Cut 'em off, you die."

"Not all that funny."

The Major shook his head. "No."

Again a brief minute of silence, in which Elric's eyes stayed fixed on the same spot. Finally, Mustang burst out:

"God. Isn't there some sort of height requirement for the army?"

Finally! A rise. Elric half-stood, so far as his restraints would allow him, and his eyes met Mustang's again. Now they held a purer fury. "I'm not short!"

"Are you _joking?" _Mustang asked, the corrected himself: "Are you _delusional?"_

"Shut up! I'm not. Besides, I've grown a lot recently."

"Well, that certainly counts for a lot. Did your voice drop, too? 'Cause that's a big step in a boy's life – "

"Oh, screw you!"

"I mean, how tall _are _you?"

"I'm five-nine!" Elric spat defiantly, holding Mustang's gaze. Then he looked away. "Ish."

"Ish," Mustang repeated. Elric scowled at that. "I really have to...Was that why you killed him? Did you have a Napoleon complex thing going on?"

"That doesn't even make any _sense."_

"It does to you. They say that the minds of the small work in different ways."

"No it doesn't, and no they don't!"

"Or small minds? Maybe it's small minds. Either way, it's applicable."

"You don't even _know _me!"

"I can extrapolate. Assume. I know your sort."

"You don't even know what my sort _is, _asshole."

"No?" Mustang leaned forward, his hands crossed before him. "Young man, maybe a little short..." It was interesting to watch Elric's face go a little purple before he finished the though. "...on cash. Pretty sure of himself, and his ability, and his immortality – either a bit more patriotic than is strictly called for or more strapped for cash than the norm – with a bit of an attitude problem and an independent streak. Good at what he does, so his superiors cut him a bit of slack – just so he acquires a slight insubordinate edge. Nothing serious, just something to bolster his ego and get him addicted to practical jokes. Enough that he'll have enough leeway to get pissed off when he thinks it's called for. Enough that he'll dare to disobey an order when he doesn't like the thought of it."

Elric was smirking, settling back into his chair. "That sounds like a bit of projection on your part, sir."

Hmph. Boy was more perceptive than he seemed. Still, Mustang knew how to piss someone like him off: "Welcome to the analogy, Major," he snorted. The smirk disappeared and the jaw tightened at this affront to the boy's hallowed intelligence.

He shook it off, though. Impressive, really. "So? Which was it?"

Mustang waited for the boy to elaborate. He didn't, of course, ass, so there was an awkward pause before Mustang asked, "Which what?"

"Patriotism or money?"

"For me?" he asked. The boy nodded. Mustang considered lying, but decided that he was going to break the mold and tell the truth. He would be a lying politician no longer. "Money." Shit.

"No it wasn't," Elric said breezily. "It was patriotism. You sounded too bitter for it to be money."

"I didn't sound bitter. Hawkeye, did I sound bitter?"

"No, sir," she replied. Elric looked at her appraisingly, then shook his head.

"She doesn't count. You pay her. Me, I did it for money. Country's a piece of crap, and I know it."

"Hey!"

"What?" he asked defiantly, then shrugged. "It's true. It was true four years ago, and it's true now."

"In neither case – we're the single most educated country in the world; we have one of the highest standards of living; our GDP is among the highest – "

"Yep. I sure did hear that when I watched the State of the Nation address."

Well, this line of discourse was generally shit. "Oh? Really? What, did they build a special low-to-the-ground TV set specifically for you?"

Elric flushed and futilely beat his fists against the arms of his chair. "Shut up! That's not funny!"

"Actually, it is. What do you think, Hawkeye?"

"It's quite funny, sir."

"There you are. Funny, funny. I say Major Elric looks like he's three, and I've got my entire stand-up routine down. 'How did Major Elric manage to kill Basque Gran?' 'Boxes!' Drumroll."

"I didn't."

"Oh. Stilts, then?"

"No! That isn't...I didn't kill him."

Huh. Mustang raised an artful eyebrow. "Isn't it a bit late for protests, Major?"

"What, the filing deadline pass?"

"Matter of fact..."

"Well, I was a little bit indisposed, is all. I'd just try running again next year, but I don't much think that'll be an option, so...I didn't kill him. Bastard would've had it coming if I had, but I didn't."

That last bit was more convincing than it should've been. "Really."

"Yeah. I mean – I punched him. I did do that much. Bastard had _that _coming," Elric repeated. "But then I ran away. I was scared."

"They found you next to the body. You came back."

"I was scareder," the boy said defiantly.

"More scared," Mustang corrected absently.

Elric snorted. "Same difference."

"_Please – " _Mustang choked out, then got a handle on himself. "Don't say that. Please." He held up a hand to forestall any outrage. "Scared of what?"

"Them."

"Right...Why did you come back?"

"Them! I was scared of them."

Mustang watched Elric, who seemed startlingly reluctant to explain himself. "Major, bear in mind that I decide whether to try you here or in Drachma. If you're uncooperative, I won't hesitate to hand you over to them – to their firing squads."

Well, it got his attention, at least. "I'm not fucking _being _uncooperative! I'm telling you – I was scared of them, what they'd do – I needed to get to the comm equipment. I needed to contact someone from Amestris."

"Didn't you have a two-way radio, Major?"

The boy shrugged. "Took it apart and made it into a one-way. How do you think I _heard _the State of the Nation address?"

"You made your two way..." Mustang shook his head. "I don't even know how that's possible."

"Well, that's why I'm the genius and you're the politician."

"Right," said politician muttered. "You know you've been surrounded by people from Amestris for the past few days, right?"

"No one would believe me now. It sounds like I'm trying to make excuses."

"Yeah, it really does. Why did you need to talk to one of us so badly?"

Elric smirked just a little. "Patriotism."

"Thought you didn't have any."

"Thought I didn't have any either."

"Well, thank god that little deus ex machina was there to bail you out. And what was so dire that we had to know it right then?"

The smirk faded; Elric shrank, just a little. "They were killing people," he said.

Mustang blinked. "They...tend to do that in war."

"Innocents," he amended, something sickening in his delivery.

"Collateral damage."

"No."

Jesus. The President forced himself to lean forward, supporting his chin with the heel of his hand. "You were part of a scientific crew, weren't you, Major? Trained nominally in combat, mostly out there to dismantle biological weapons..."

"Yeah."

"Jesus," the President said out loud.

"We found some labs. We converted them, and we used them." Elric looked up, and he looked – desperate. "I swear to god, Mustang, I had absolutely no idea what I was doing. It was blind. I _swear. _That was why I hit him, when I found out that they'd been engaging in human experimentation – " Elric dropped his gaze. "And that was when I came back – when I found out that _I..."_

Oh. Well, okay. That put something of a different spin on things. "People will think you're lying, Elric."

"I know. Don't think I don't know," he replied quietly.

Mustang watched him stare at that same spot on the table. "I knew Basque Gran," he said. Elric didn't move. "He was my commanding officer in Ishvar. – Do you know Ishvar?" The Major nodded, wary. "Well, that was how I made my name, you know. Napalming villages under his command. Made my way all the way up to lieutenant under that policy."

"You did it?" Mustang suppressed a wince at the contempt in the boy's voice.

"I'm not a courageous man, Major Elric, and Gran isn't a merciful one. I suppose you learned that yourself. I was afraid of being shot. I was..." Strange; he'd never admitted all this to anyone else. "I was afraid of disgrace. I was young, and I didn't know that I could disagree. Insubordination – never even crossed my mind. So I murdered until I didn't anymore."

Elric's brow furrowed. "You left?"

"Blew the whistle. Submitted a formal report on the activities of Drachman commanders in Ishvar, right to the Secretary of Defense. I doubt he read it, but somebody did, and they called me into a meeting and offered me a bump up several ranks if I kept my mouth shut. They threatened to destroy my reputation if I didn't. So I took their offer. You should be sorry that I'm your advocate here, though, Major – the Premier is civil, but he he's never really forgotten the way I ratted out his boy." Mustang shook his head. "Anyway. I'm sorry – I went off there, didn't I? All I mean to say is that I know what it's like, and I believe you, and I don't really like you, but I'm going to do my damnedest to keep you inside our borders, and that's the difference between a fair trial and death. And I want you appreciating it, because from the look of things..." He looked at Elric – just a boy, really. "Protecting you isn't going to win me any votes. So appreciate what I'm doing for you."

"Piece of crap politician, talks too much," Elric said with a smile. Yeah. He appreciated it.

Mustang started to push himself up from the table, then paused. "Human experimentation, you said. For what purpose?"

"I can't tell you, sir," Elric said. He did look sorry, too, sort of.

"I'm the President, Major. I think if there were anyone you could confide in – "

"I'm sorry," he said, shaking his head.

Mustang forced a nonchalant shrug. "Okay," he said, and stood. He turned to Hawkeye – her expression was strange, clouded, but it cleared after a moment – and she in turn turned to open the door.

"Mr. President," Elric said, just before Mustang left.

First time the kid had actually used the correct title. Mustang turned back. "Yeah."

The boy looked younger, somehow – even smaller. "I...have a brother, sir. Alphonse Elric. He's a student at APU. Could you – maybe – could you get him into protective custody? They'll be after him, too."

"Who will?" Mustang asked.

Elric paused. "The media," he said unconvincingly. Fantastic.

"I'll do what I can, Major. I would like to admonish you, however, that the more you hide from me, the more you're screwing yourself over."

"Yes, sir," Elric said. "Thank you."

And Mustang nodded to the Major, and left, a great deal worse off for having seen the kid.

* * *

(A/N: Sorry this took so long. See, I'd typed up this really kickass dialogue between Ed and Roy, and then I sort of switched computers and forgot to transfer said document with me. I'm still not sure that I won't replace this chapter once I get access to that particular computer again.) 


End file.
